


Come in From the Cold

by Thistlerose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jossed, M/M, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 2004.  Harry's in emotional pain after losing Sirius, and Neville is the only one who gets him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come in From the Cold

The bell above the door jingled as they left Zonko’s. On the frost-covered pavement, Harry examined his parcels, while Neville steered them through the oncoming waves of holiday shoppers. 

Neville shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and tucked his chin into his collar, and was using his shoulder and elbow to nudge Harry in the right direction. The sky was darkening. Icy air bit through his multiple layers of clothing, and his breath came out in white puffs. Harry seemed oblivious to the bitter cold.

“I’ve got Ron’s gift, Hermione’s gift, Ginny’s, Luna’s, something for Mr and Mrs Weasley, and your gift is back in Gryffindor,” Harry was saying. “One, two, three, four, five…and yours is the sixth. Why do I have all this change, then?”

He held up his mittened hand to show Neville the Sickles and Knuts. They twinkled in the Christmas lights, and the lights from the shop windows.

It came to him the same instant a blast of frigid air ripped through the street and sent him knocking into Neville, who nearly stumbled under his weight. Gripping Harry’s elbow to steady him and looking into his face, Neville saw that he had gone ashen.

“Sirius,” Harry muttered, still leaning against Neville, though the wind had stopped for the moment. “I had six people on my list, but I put aside money for seven gifts. _Fuck_ ,” he said bleakly, and Neville didn’t know what to do.

He felt Harry trembling through his thick woolen coat, but before he’d decided how best to ease those tremors, Harry had pulled away. 

He started walking up the street, heedless of passersby, and Neville had to hurry after him or lose him in the crowd. He caught up with him at the corner, off of which Harry had already stepped. He’d landed up to his ankles in icy grey water and was simply standing there, staring at his feet.

“Fuck,” he said again, when Neville approached. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ” He jerked his arm away roughly when Neville put out a hand, and stomped his feet, splashing small chunks of ice onto the curb.

Neville watched him helplessly for a few moments while he stood there, back turned, and shoulders hunched like he’d been clouted between them. When at last he sniffled loudly and turned his eyes were dry, but rather red, and there were tear-splotches on his glasses.

Neville took the parcels from his arms, then took him by the elbow and pulled him back onto the pavement.

“I can’t feel my feet,” observed Harry ruefully.

“Well, you were standing in frozen water for five minutes. C’mon, we’ll get warmed up.”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“Harry, it’s all right.”

“I _wasn’t_ crying.”

“I know.”

Neville led him to the Three Broomsticks, where Madam Rosemerta appeared to be doing good business as holiday shoppers sought refuge from the December air. Neville noticed a few of their classmates as he pushed among the other patrons, prodding Harry before him, but he knew they wouldn’t approach him if he was with Harry and Harry was looking the way he did.

They got a table toward the back of the tavern, close to the fireplace, far from the Christmas tree. Harry slumped in his chair, put his arms on the table, and dropped his head against them. Neville went and got their butterbeer, and when he came back Harry was still hunched over the table, his shaggy black hair falling over his face and forearms.

Neville put their mugs on the table and slid into the chair opposite Harry’s. Harry didn’t glance up, so Neville didn’t say anything. He kicked off his trainers. Then he reached under the table, pulled Harry’s feet toward him and tugged off his trainers as well. He peeled away his sopping socks and tossed them aside. They landed a few feet from the fireplace, which meant they’d be dry and warm by the time he and Harry were ready to leave.

He held Harry's frozen feet in his lap for a few minutes, massaging them back to life. When Harry began to mutter in protest he dropped them back under the table, reached out with his own sock-clad feet, and captured them and held them.

“Pins n’needles,” Harry complained, but at least he was talking, so Neville began to rub his feet between his own. “Ow.”

“Well,” said Neville, “you were standing in frozen water.”

Harry lifted his head. His glasses hung askew on the bridge of his nose and there was a band of red across his forehead where it had been pressed against his forearm.

Neville pushed a mug of hot butterbeer toward him.

Harry scowled, but took the mug and held it. “I _wasn’t_ crying,” he insisted again.

“I know,” said Neville.

“I mean, I was.”

“It’s okay.”

“Only in front of you.”

“It’s okay,” said Neville warmly.

09/06/04


End file.
